


if this room was burning, i wouldn't even notice (everything is on fire anyway)

by softestlesbian



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Welcome to Night Vale Setting, Baker Harry, M/M, Radio Host Nick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestlesbian/pseuds/softestlesbian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry, listeners,” Nick says, pitching his voice low in the way he’s pretty sure once convinced Chris to give up his job. “I didn’t mean to laugh there. Obviously, there is nothing funny about Intern Nate’s death--even if it was his own doing, and even if the car he were driving were comically small. We here at Radio One take every death seriously, even those our Secret Police would rather not discuss. Goodbye, Intern Nate, and may your next life lead to a more interesting outcome.” He pauses to take a sip of coffee. “And now, dear, sweet, wonderful listeners, the weather.”</p>
<p>or: a Welcome to Night Vale AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if this room was burning, i wouldn't even notice (everything is on fire anyway)

**Author's Note:**

> well. the last thing I posted was an 85K lilo AU and now here's this, a thousand words of nick and harry in the town of night vale that I began ages ago and finally decided to post. never let it be said that I only write one thing. 
> 
> um. warnings for mentions of death and a stupid number of WTNV references.

“Dear listeners,” Nick says, “dunno if you’ve noticed, but we’ve got a new addition to our little town. Harold Styles, his name is, or so Producer Matt tells me. Who is he? What does he want here? How does he keep his hair so effortlessly coiffed in this hot, hot weather? How has it been an entire week, and he's spoken to no one I've talked to? And just what is he doing with that space next to Daisy's opera house?” He clucks his tongue. “Send us a text if you’ve got a clue. You know the number. And now, traffic.”

He clicks on the next part of his show to air; it’s an ad for Target. He quite likes the way his voice sounds pre-recorded. He doesn’t listen to his past shows, is too afraid that Management will hear about it and he doesn’t want a repeat of what happened when Moyles was caught listening to past shows. He shudders at the thought. Tragic, that. Even if Chris were a bit of an arse. 

His musings are interrupted by the ping of his phone. It’s a text from an unknown number. 

_actually, the name’s harry. not harold. .x_

He grins down at his phone. “Listeners,” he says, nearly cutting the ad off in his haste to get this on radio, “it seems I have a correction to make. The dearly pretty boy, as it turns out, is not named Harold but Harry. We apologize for the inconvenience this must have caused--we here at Radio One understand what it’s like to have your identity taken from you. Remember, dear listeners,” and he leans closer into the mike, now knowing that Harry’s listening, “it is not what others say about you that matters, or what others think your name is. It does not matter if they scream that false name into the void. Murderer, they say, pointing at you and calling you by the name you do not possess--if you remain true to yourself, they cannot hurt you. Probably.

“I apologize, Harry. Matt was wrong to name you incorrectly.”

He continues. From the booth, Matt surreptitiously flips him off, and Nick giggles in the middle of a monologue about the death of Intern Nate. 

“I’m sorry, listeners,” he says, pitching his voice low in the way he’s pretty sure once convinced Chris to give up his job. “I didn’t mean to laugh there. Obviously, there is nothing funny about Intern Nate’s death--even if it was his own doing, and even if the car he were driving were comically small. We here at Radio One take every death seriously, even those our Secret Police would rather not discuss. Goodbye, Intern Nate, and may your next life lead to a more interesting outcome.” He pauses to take a sip of coffee. “And now, dear, sweet, wonderful listeners, the weather.”

He sits back and scrolls through his phone. Intern Fiona (he only calls her that because she hates it so much; it’s a bit obnoxious, innit, calling people by their job titles. He doesn’t want to be Radio Host Nicholas Grimshaw, after all (except that he really, really does, pathetically)) smacks him on the back of the head as she walks by, setting down his coffee cup. He sniffs it tentatively. Smells like coffee. Looks like it, too.

Just to be safe, he pours it out in the trash can when she isn’t looking. 

“And we’re back,” Nick murmurs into the microphone. From the room behind him, he hears a loud crash and what sounds like a cat, screaming for its life. “Oh, listeners. I’m going to have to cut us short today. Something’s gone wrong in the break room. Intern Fiona -- well, she’s alive,” he tells them, looking behind him and craning his neck to be able to see. “And that’s all we can ask for.” He pauses, biting his lip and readying himself to end the broadcast. “Good night, listeners. Good night.” 

He gets up and walks to the break room. The fire’s been put out by the time he gets back there and he grabs his jacket, patting out the last few flames and putting it on. Scorched, but wearable. He quite likes the way it looks; he is the trendsetter of the town, after all. 

He gets outside, whistling and swinging his keys around. 

Harry’s leaning against his car. 

Nick raises an eyebrow, grinning at him, soft and a little nervous. “Harry-not-Harold,” he says. “Fancy seeing you here.” He winces and, casual as ever, wishes for the ground to swallow him up.

Just a second later, he takes back the wish. He doesn’t want to have to explain that to Management again. 

Harry bites his lip. "Nearly died today," he says. "Explosion at my bakery. Very dramatic." He looks down at his feet. "And we just met, but -- after it all, I just wanted to see you. Been listening to your show all day. Did you know there's a recording of every show you've ever done?" 

Nick hadn't, but that's not the pressing issue here. "You bake?" he asks. His voice cracks a little, because Harry's really very pretty. Nick hasn't been nervous like this in forever, not since the last baker that had rolled his way into town. Michael, his name was. Nick sighs a little. What a tragic way to go. 

"I do," Harry says. "Could take you back to mine, bake you a cake. I'm very... into baking for others lately."

Nick grins, slow. Perhaps this won't be such a normal day after all. "I'm very into baking these days," he says, nodding toward his car. "Get in and show me the way."

*

“Chocolate,” Harry tells him when Nick expresses confusion at the flavor of the cake. “Have you really never had -- never mind. Your town’s weird”

Nick shrugs, taking another bite, holding back any comments he might have about the gravity-defying quality of Harry’s hair. Chocolate, then. Not as good as that cake he’d made Matt for his birthday, but this one’s not likely to poison anyone. He thinks. 

“Am I going to die tonight?” he asks Harry quietly, licking his spoon clean.

Harry gives him a surprised look, setting his plate to the side and tucking his feet underneath him. It's all so homey, Nick doesn't know what to do with himself. “Can’t imagine a reason why.” He pauses. “Do you... think you are?” 

Nick shrugs. “Could always. Nothing is permanent, after all, and life as impermanent as anything else.” He pauses. “How old are you, by the way? Do you know?”

“Twenty,” Harry tells him. 

Nick hums. “Interesting.” He tries to do the math for his own age, but gets confused. He’s repeated a decade somewhere in there, he knows it. He’s just not sure which.

“Right,” Harry says after a long pause of Nick attempting to do maths. “Um -- anyway. I’d hope you weren’t going to die tonight. Don’t think you will, even if life is impermanent.”

Nick grins, chest going light and happy like the time he’d heard he was no longer an intern, would have his own show. “You’re an optimist. I like you,” he says, and leans in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for this. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ guillotineheart and twitter @ doinwhatwedo :)


End file.
